


On The Rebound

by nofaves



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Choose Your Own Character, M/M, it's a mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:45:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nofaves/pseuds/nofaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Consolation can be found in the strangest places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Rebound

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just say I'm no longer young, OK? I became a hockey fan in 1990, so I have a wealth of players to draw on for inspiration. The two that inspired this story? One is still playing; one is long-retired.
> 
> I'm so open for crit on this, since it breaks a good many rules of story-telling. And I'd really love to hear who _you_ think fit the story!

What is he doing here?

What am I doing here?

Never mind the questions now, though. He sees me and he’s coming toward me, hand extended, awaiting my greeting.

“Good to see you,” he says in that sweet young Québécois-tinged voice. 

Good to see me? He sounds like he means it. Wish I could say the same. 

They’re just words, though. “Yeah, you too,” I mouth, avoiding specifics. “Didn’t think you’d be here this early.”

Morning skate for the visiting team is generally avoided by the home team, but occasionally guys show up to observe the competition. They’ll sneak around, hide in shadows, anything to avoid being thought as needing the extra leg up, so to speak.

He isn’t hiding. He's standing tall, smiling, as if he owns the world. But after all I’d been through, another cocky goaltender is not what I need to see.

“You busy?” he asks before I can duck into the dressing room.

“What do you need?”

“Nothing,” he says, grinning still. “Just thought we could have lunch.”

Damn. Bad news travels just as fast as good, it seems. “You heard,” I respond, looking him straight in the eye, willing the truth from him.

“I did. I’m sorry.”

I can’t say anything to his truth-filled words, sparse as they are. I avoid his gaze and head for the showers, hoping that by the time I finish, he’d be gone. Or on the ice. Anywhere but where he turns out to be, which is in the hallway outside the room.

This time, he’s hiding.

He waits, back turned and a hood over his too-recognizable face, until my teammates are gone and I step out.

The muffled voice stops me in my tracks. “Not hungry?”

I shouldn’t. Should just let the words fall, but my pain and my longing cry out for relief, and his melodic voice is like balm to my ears.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you’re offering to feed me.”

His smile emerges from the shade of his hood like the sun peeking between the clouds. His hand reaches out to mine. I take it and let him pull me through a doorway.

“Will I do?” he asks as he closes the door, locks it, and flicks the light switch. 

Fluorescent light bathes the room and stabs my eyes. I flip off the switch, plunging the windowless room back into total darkness.

“I… I don’t—” I stutter before his mouth claims mine, stoking the flame within me. Unbidden, my arms encircle him, my tongue explores his, our voices become a chorus of need.

And oh, his fingers. Goalie fingers. When a man makes his living with his hands the way he does, they become tools. And when that man embraces you, coaxes living groans from you, they become divine gifts.

One hand finds my face, traces its way down my neck and up into my hair. The other dances its way down my back, down, down past my hips and cups my ass. They work in unison, clutching me tightly, pulling me closer, smothering, imprisoning. And all the while I try to rise above the whirlwind of sensation, try to guess why he's doing this, try to find an excuse to throw him off me and run.

His lips leave mine and travel to my neck, kissing and licking and sucking, marking me as his own.

“Stop… Can’t do this…”

“Oh, no. Not now I’m not,” he sings low and I feel the wall at my back and his hands on my wrists, pinning them over my head. “Too late now, _mon doux_.” He swallows my protests in a kiss, continuing until I can barely breathe, let alone deny him.

Against his iron grip, I struggle, resist, try to pull away. He murmurs indecipherable French phrases, ringing and singing into my ears, eroding my reluctance. And when his hips grind against mine, firmness upon firmness, I realize that my own body is betraying me.

“Please, I’m begging you. I love him…”

“I know.” He kisses me once more, this time gently, his hands releasing my wrists and dropping to cradle my face. “He hurt you.” Gentler still. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“But—” The rest of my protest is cut off by his hand over my mouth.

“He deserves this.” He sinks his teeth into the soft skin between my neck and shoulders. I moan my agony and my ecstasy into his hand, struggling feverishly to end this sweet wicked torment. 

He’s marking me. On purpose. I don’t care. Part of me agrees with him, and that part responds to him.

He thrusts his hips suggestively into mine. “Not letting you go. Stop saying no.”

I push back at him, shaking my head to dislodge his hand. “You’ll stop if I tell you to stop.” I wish I could see his face, but I have to merely hope that my words are getting through to him. “I don’t like this game you’re playing. I feel like I’m the one in the middle.”

“Oh, no…” he whispers. “The game is between you and me. He deserves that, too.” Once more he clasps my wrists; once more he backs me firmly to the wall. “You’re mine…” He lightly sucks my lower lip – does he know what that does to me? It’s Heaven and Hell all at once, and in the dark I don’t care anymore. My desire spurs me on and I lunge forward, trying to get to him, to cover him with all of me.

“Mine, do you hear me?”

I can’t break free, I can’t reach him. I want to howl in frustration, beg for his mercy. In the end, my freedom is purchased with a single word.

“Yours…”

And then I am his, his hands now everywhere but on my wrists, searching, coaxing, driving, compelling me to join him in his passion. Foolishly, I push back at him in the black-as-night room and our bodies topple to the floor. Skin-on skin. Somehow, he loses his sweatshirt and tee, I lose my polo, and we both lose our minds in each other. 

We moan each other’s names over and over, climbing fevered heights. I feel his lips traveling lower, lower, and then the short, sharp knife of arousal as his mouth encases me.

Unthinking, I sink my fingers into the softness of his hair and howl his name, wishing he would have gagged me before I could.

Before I lose total control, he pulls back and slides back up my body, his lips seeking my ear. “Can’t stop now,” he whispers, waiting for my consent.

“Do it.”

I feel my pants fall away, feel him turn me to face away, feel his fingers at my opening.

But I want it now and I tell him so. I want the pain. He keeps fiddling away, pushing, pulling, stretching, until I nearly yell again. 

“Do it!” I urge, and he does, and it hurts – oh, does it hurt. Hot tears prick my eyes as he thrusts into me over and over. 

The pain he gives me, gives me a focus. Now I can groan out all my heartache as he grinds out his passion. 

Now, I’m using him.

When it’s over and we lay recovering, I hear him whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s why I’m sorry.”

The tone of his voice tells me that he never intended to change me, or change us, but he has. 

“Don’t be sorry. I’d hate to think that an encounter with me made someone sorry.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

I do know. But I can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his hurting me has helped me. Better to allow him to think he was hurting someone else.

“You know I’d take him back, don’t you?”

“You will take him back,” he corrects. “But you will still have been mine, if just for now. And he will know that, too.” 

I hear the smile in his voice, the cocky goalie grin in his tone.

Let him have his satisfaction. After all, he’s given me a bit of my own.


End file.
